Evensong's Heir

Book One of the Songbirds of Valnon

By L. S. Baird

Evensong's Heir and Songbirds of Valnon Copyright 2013 by L. S. Baird

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. This book is available in print at most online retailers.

Smashwords Edition - April 2013

www.valnon.org

Cover Art by Bethany Vargeson Copyright 2013

For Joy, who knew it all along.

-1-

The streets of Valnon had not been planned by a sane man. In fact, the idea that Valnon had been planned by anyone, regardless of mental faculties, was a notion that strained credulity. Valnon had simply happened wherever it took a notion to do so. The buildings had long since outgrown the island beneath them, and now spiraled up and out in fantastic spumes of walls and bridges, while the roads twisted over the island's surface like a skein of yarn that had become entangled in the rocks. The result was a city clinging precariously to a high perch above the waves, festooned on the white rocks like some gaudy colony of barnacles.

Opinion was divided on who or what had caused the confusion. Some of her citizens said her streets were built on the fragments of ancient Hasafel's roads, roads that once lead to other islands now drowned beneath the sea. Others called the roads a result of St. Alveron's fancy, or of Antigus the Terrible's arrogance, or the aimless wanderings of a large number of unknown and sorely underestimated sheep.

Either way it's utter bollocks, Nicholas Grayson thought, glaring through the chilly downpour at a shuttered tavern that should have been the cheesemonger's on Eastgate Road. Sheep, saints, and tyrants had all left Valnon centuries ago, and at that moment, the city's haphazard byways existed solely to thwart him on his business.

It had been months since he had last felt rain on his skin, and longer still since he had been in the upper streets. Grayson's home was a humble room above the Silver Pearl, a quayside tavern that sat beneath the vast cavern roof of Valnon's Undercity, and neither rain nor snow ever burdened its eaves. But the beer was tolerable, the bed was comfortable, and Grayson had taught himself he did not need the sky. He saw a slice of it well enough every day through the great, gaping stone mouth of the Undercity harbor, and he thought himself as content as a man could only be in his grave. Only the jarring familiarity of that name, written in that left-tilting hand, had roused him from his Undercity tomb and set him walking the rainy surface streets at this ungodly hour.

Rouen, the letter had been signed, though Grayson knew that was no longer the man's name. He was Kestrel now, Lord Kestrel the Temple Preybird, and next in line to be High Preybird. The full list of his titles, current and past, would have quadrupled the length of the letter. But he had signed his letter with the only name Grayson had ever called him. On the seal beside his signature, a lark held an orb encircled in its wings. It seemed to curl in on itself as though in pain, and the numeral that should have appeared between its wingtips was a smudge clotted with the wax from several recent messages. The parchment was ink-spattered, the letters hasty, brief.

Nicholas,

Come quickly. I need you.

-Rouen

Fourteen years had passed, with no word. Grayson wasn't even sure how Rouen knew how to find him. But then, Rouen was not the boy Grayson had left behind all those years ago, and all of Valnon was at his fingertips. If the Preybird Kestrel desired Nicholas Grayson, then Nicholas Grayson he would have.

But it was for no Preybird that Grayson had come up Darkmarket Road, out of his dry shadows and into the downpour. Rather, it was for the Songbird that Rouen had once been. In those days Grayson had entertained no longing without russet hair and a Lark's sable; he had dreamed of oaths, of devotion, of honor. Those things meant little enough to him now, but for Rouen, Grayson would go. Fourteen years later, the ends of the earth were not too far to journey for that name.

Of course, his odds of getting to the ends of the earth were pretty slim, as Grayson couldn't even navigate a city block with anything like success. He was back at the closed tavern again. He swore in a way long and loud and rarely heard in such a respectable part of the city, as the rain sank through the padding of his brigandine and pressed, chill and damp, against his skin. Grayson suspected the building was shuffling around when he wasn't looking, determined in some demented fashion to block his path. The surface was not like the Undercity, where there was little space to tear down and rebuild with frequency, and no weather to wear down the walls. On the surface of Valnon's island, change was inevitable, fourteen years was too long, and Grayson had to admit that he no longer knew the way. If he could reach higher ground, he could look for the Temple's spire, but at his current rate he'd be more likely to wind up at the bottom of the harbor. There was nothing for it but to backtrack once again.

He turned around and instantly sank to the ankle in an overflowing gutter. Grayson shook his waterlogged boot and scowled at the stream, certain now that the whole city had some private grievance against him. The city baths, perhaps feeling that the deluge an insufficient amount of nastiness, had flushed their tanks for the night. It was a small consolation that the rain had already scoured away most of the daily filth, and the water held nothing more offensive than the incongruous, ghostly flutter of rose petals. Grayson blinked at them dumbly for a moment, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him. The petals in the gutter were no ostentatious crimson or pink from a noble's garden, long out of season now. They were silver, tinged at the edges with deep purple, crisp and fresh as tiny coracles bobbing on the current. Evensong roses bloomed until long after the first frost, and only in the Temple gardens. The water soiling Grayson's cloak hem was from no common city washtub.

With the urgency of a hound at last on the scent, Grayson spun around and took three brisk strides towards the source of the flow. He did not get much further. With his eyes on the gutter and his hood pulled low against the rain, the wild clatter of running footsteps penetrated his ears too late. Grayson looked up, yelped an unheeded warning, and collided full-on with a tall, hooded figure. The impact was enough to jostle them apart on opposite sides of the walk. The stranger staggered back further through gutter water, reeling off-balance with a gasp of pain, barely able to keep his feet. His cloak gaped for a moment, revealing a glimpse of his tunic beneath. Under his shabby cloak he was wearing enough pearls to choke every whore in Darkmarket. He did not pause, he only clutched the stained fabric closer around him as he gathered himself up to keep running, without a word of excuse or apology.

Here, now! Grayson began, snatching the man's shoulder and hauling him back. He was already fed-up with everything Valnon's surface had to offer, and that included inebriated, overdressed noblemen. Just where d'you think you're--

Help me, said the voice of the man under the hood. It was a refined voice, but not that of a drunken nobleman. Its peculiar timbre sent a shudder of recognition down Grayson's spine. The stranger clung to him with a hand that was not a child's, or a woman's, though his voice was sweet enough to be either. His gray velvet cuffs were soaked with rain and too much blood to be his own; a thin wash of crimson stained the tails of the silver birds winging their way up his sleeve. On his finger, a bright circle of wings glinted in the flicker of distant lightning, undimmed by the gore. The stranger started as the thunder retorted among the city spires. Desperation fractured the music in his voice; beneath the cowl there were blue eyes ringed white with terror. Please, in the name of the saints, I beg you--

How-- Grayson began, but he was interrupted by a burst of firelight from across the square, a pale orange echo of the lightning. The stranger flung up a hand as though to ward off a blow, and shrank back into the shadows behind Grayson, turning his head from the light.

Boot-heels rang between the close buildings, hot pitch sizzled on the wet paving-stones, and dark figures detached themselves from the alleyway. Grayson's hand instinctively went to his sword. It was a plain thing; there were no wings on the hilt or vows along the blade, but it was more than serviceable. The strangers were an unpleasant knot of ruffians in muddy leathers, and they drew up short at the sight of Grayson. There were four of them, with torches that hissed and spat in the rain. Most kept one hand inside their cloaks. Grayson eyed the men, weighed his odds, and found them in his favor.

Good evening, Grayson said, evenly. Is something amiss?

The man in front flashed a yellow smile in his weather-tanned face. If Grayson was an unexpected component in the situation, he was quickly accounted for. Ah, nothing that need detain you, sir. Though I see you've caught our runaway thief for us, you have. We're much obliged. Hand him over and we'll be on our way.

Thief? Grayson echoed, raising his eyebrows. I'm afraid you must be mistaken.

Hardly, the man said, pointing with a dirty fingernail. That boy there just took six crescents off me in the tavern round the corner. He might have swallowed the evidence, though. They're known to do that. His companions shared a rough laugh and some knowing motions of their elbows. Best let me look him over, mate.

Grayson had to struggle to keep the distaste off his face. The surface had changed in more ways than simple architectural arrangement. This young man has been in my company now this whole evening, Grayson said, and I paid well for the privilege. I assure you, his fee at the Swallowtail is far more than the six crescents you mislaid. At this, the stranger leaned up against Grayson in a passable imitation of expensive affection. Either that, Grayson thought, or he's dying.

The man, however, was not convinced by the display. That one's no whore, he spat, as though the stranger in gray velvet was something much worse.

I'll wager he's not a thief, either, Grayson returned, his tone a level warning that would have made wiser men retreat. And I'll thank you to be on your way, gentlemen. He turned to leave with the young man still on his arm, hoping he could keep his feet long enough for the two of them to get away. Grayson did not think the boy's trembling was entirely from fear. They had not gotten two steps away before their escape was thwarted by the sound of steel scraping free of its scabbard, and a half-circle of serrated blades closed around them. The ruffians' swords were single-edged things, a foreign make too elegant for their owners and all too familiar to Grayson.

He's ours is what he is, the first man snarled, jogging the Thrassin cutlass in his hand, and we'll have him, and you'll not keep us from it.

Grayson rolled his eyes heavenward, in combined annoyance and supplication. At his side, he felt the young man go tense. Stay back, Grayson murmured. He did not wait for an answer, or for the men to advance. With one hand he shoved the boy away from the crowd, with the other he ripped off his heavy, rain-sodden cloak and hurled it right into the path of their attackers. It landed on them with a satisfying smack, and Grayson plowed into the confusion it caused.

It was hardly a pleasant chore, but it was a quick enough one. They were the sort used to slow and unsuspecting prey, and Grayson was neither. Their illegal blades were new to them. Grayson had crossed his sword with Thrassin steel often enough to know its strengths and weaknesses, the best techniques to make the most of the swords' cruel design, but his enemies had no such advantage, and it cost them. Grayson's blade tore through the rain, through hasty defenses, through flesh and bone. The torches fell to the streets, smoked briefly, and drowned, rain drawing its dark curtain over the street once more. Aborted cries of pain bounced off the closed shutters of the inn, and the water in the gutters ran dark with blood, infusing the rose petals with a sinister blush of new color.

Grayson looked down at the bodies strewn across the street, and frowned. He mopped back his dripping hair, and toed the body of the leader. His backhand was getting sloppy, Grayson thought, eyeing the torn jerkin and the sprinkling of cheap mail rings scattered on the road. He'd have to work on that. Grayson wiped his sword on the soggy twist of the dead man's cloak, picked up his own, and turned around to see just whom, exactly, he had rescued. Look, glad as I am to lend a hand, I am in something of a hurry, so if you would just... Grayson got no further. He was alone in the street. Sheathing his sword, he shot off in pursuit of the fleeing stranger.

It wasn't much of a chase. Grayson had half-forgotten Valnon's streets, it was true, but the man he was following had no more concept of his surroundings than a rabbit. He hesitated at the mouths of alleys Grayson knew for dead ends just by the rubbish heaps outside them, he would reel, bewildered, in the brief cobblestoned opening of a market plaza. Grayson caught him by the elbow before he had gotten three blocks away.

Bloody hell, boy! I said stay back, not make for Iskarit!

Unhand me! He was tall, but he was no fighter, and his struggle to wrench his arm from Grayson's grip was almost comical. Grayson had a very good idea already of what kind of creature he had caught, but how had he come to be lost and alone in the empty streets of the city, bloodied and scared, with his colors covered by a common sell-sword's cloak?

"What happened to, Help me in the name of the saints? Grayson asked, jerking the young man a little closer. And for the love of Grace, quit screeching. Those admirers of yours might have friends, and I'm in no mood to kill anyone else for free this evening."

The young man went utterly still. "Screeching?" he repeated in tones of deep offense, forgetting to struggle.

Well it sure as hell wasn't Evensong, Grayson hissed, and was met with the stony silence of an insult too bruising for any retort. Now hold still. I don't want to hurt you. D'you think I would have bothered saving you if I did?

I'm worth more alive, he answered, but there was a quaver of fear now in his voice. Grayson knew that he had probably just imagined all the things that could be done to him without killing him, and if he had any creativity at all, they would not be pleasant.

Depends on who's trying to catch you, doesn't it? Grayson dug in his belt and produced a crumpled scrap of parchment, which he brandished in the boy's face. You recognize this seal, don't you?

That's Kestrel's! There was a flash of relief in the blue eyes beneath the tatty cloak, but it quickly turned to suspicion. How did you get that? Who are you?

Grayson stuffed Rouen's letter away again. I'm somebody who hasn't gotten a thank-you yet for saving your life, he said, and was a little mollified by the scandalized expression he got in return.

Let go of me, the young man said, his voice ghostly, all the color draining from his face. He began squirming again, and though he was weaker than ever, there was a frantic desperation to it that made him even harder to hold. Grayson's amusement evaporated. He didn't think his tone had been quite that threatening.

Listen, he said, as gently as he could manage while trying to restrain his flailing prize. Hold still! We both need to get back to the Temple. We'll have better luck together, right?

I can't go back, he answered, and something in his face made Grayson realize the young man was no longer aware of him, or of the rainy street, or of anything save the hands restraining him and the private horror in his mind. He was shivering like an exhausted horse. I don't know the way. Where am I? Boren--in the garden--I can't-- He broke off with a soft little cry and put a hand to his face, as though to fend off visions too horrible to bear. A second later his knees buckled underneath him, and Grayson staggered under his sudden insensate weight. His head rolled back limply, and the cloak slid away from his face.

He was perhaps twenty at the most--it was hard to tell with his kind--but his hair was the bright silver of the rose petals in the gutter. Platinum feathers winked from the tips of his collar, chiming as the rain hit them. Grayson knew a Songbird's devices, but he had never before seen one dressed in the grays and lavenders of Evensong. Over the musty smells of blood and waterlogged silk there was a faint odor of rich censer smoke clinging to him, his skin perfumed with rare fragrances that had been drizzled into baths of carved alabaster. Grayson's pulse tripped with the certain knowledge of what he had found, far from the shelter of Temple walls where he belonged.

The young man in his arms was the Dove.

-2-

Grayson had often imagined returning to the Temple. In younger days, he had thought of turning up on the last Dawning of Rouen's term as Lark, to lay defiant claim to the heart Rouen could at last freely give. But in the end, Grayson had stayed in the Undercity where he belonged. At the time, it had been five years since their parting, Grayson was no longer the man he had been, and Preybirds did not consort with sell-swords.

Since then the fancies had been more fleeting, but they still struck from time to time. Grayson would go to the Temple for Noontide, or for Canticles Eve, or to see the miraculous Dove: the first Songbird in three hundred years to claim that title. He would go and ask after Rouen. Or he would go and then leave, without lingering, to say to himself he had done so.

But he never went. Even if he had, no entrance could have been as dramatic as the one he had not planned, bursting through the Temple doors and into a ring of bristling prentices' spears, the dripping and unconscious Dove of Valnon in his arms. It took a good deal of protest on his part to convince them that he was not the kidnapper himself, and that he was there on express request of the Preybird Kestrel. The furor was not assuaged until a tall man in emerald robes strode into the atrium, his black hair like a war pennant and his eyes blazing.

Haverty! Put that thing down until you're certain you need to make use of it. That goes for you too, Tolver. All of you, get back to your positions at once, until you're called for. Fourteen years had only sharpened Hawk's angular features, and there were very few threads of grey in his hair, not near as many as his age merited. His blood was foreign; Shindamiri or the like, and there had been a scandal some decades ago when he had been cut for a Lark. Rumor had it that some outside the Temple's walls--and inside of them--did not take well to an outsider being one of Valnon's Songbirds, much less his becoming High Preybird and right-hand of the Wing himself.

But Grayson's memories of the man had nothing to do with his narrow eyes and the caramel tint of his skin. There was only the recollection of a stern fairness overwhelmed by crushing disappointment. Grayson shifted the Dove's weight in his aching arms, and tried to not feel so completely diminished. It was as though he was eighteen and disgraced again under the High Preybird's stare.

Truly, I did not think that you would come, Hawk said, in greeting. He reached out one long hand and rested it against the Dove's pale cheek, his relief evident as he felt warmth beneath his fingers. Much less that you would aid us before we could even ask it of you. Where did you find him?

He mowed me over in a street near--well, it used to be the Sword and Sparrow years ago, I've no idea what it is now. He had some troublemakers after him. Undercity hires, I'd say, but none I knew.

I will send out some Godswords at once to find them and dispatch them--

You needn't, Grayson interrupted, and was himself once again, a capable man long years away from boyhood's failures. Unless you wanted someone to cart the corpses away.

Hawk raised his eyebrows, his mouth thinning. I see, he said. Though it does make them difficult to question. His black eyes flicked briefly to the prentices. They were standing like carved stone, faces impassive, but straining for all they were worth to hear the conversation. Enough of that for now. This is no place for discussion, and the Dove needs attention. If you would be so good as to bring His Grace, and come with me.

Hawk gestured with one voluminous sleeve, and billowed towards the sanctuary with the clear expectation that Grayson would follow. He made a sharp turn to the right, just short of the bolted sanctuary doors. Grayson went after him up the stairs, noticing the prentices flinch as he passed them by. Grayson knew all too well what they were thinking: the outrage of an Undercity mercenary walking bold-faced into a passage reserved only for Temple Birds, wearing sharpened steel on his hip, his unholy hands on the Dove's body. Only fully-vested Godswords were permitted to carry swords into the presence of Songbirds, and then rarely. Even the prentices that guarded the Temple were forbidden any blade longer than an eating knife, their halberds allowed only because the amount of wood far outweighed the steel tip. As for touching their Songbirds, even casually, that was entirely out of the question.

Yet Grayson followed in Hawk's wake, his boots leaving muddy prints down the immaculate marble floor, his rain-soaked clothes spattered with the blood of recently dead men, the Dove's head heavy on his shoulder. And the High Preybird did not so much as bat an eyelash at the sacrilege. Grayson could hear the prentices whispering as soon as they deemed Hawk out of hearing. He wondered if any of the young Godswords-to-be knew of his name, or his reputation, or his disgrace. If so, it was still unlikely they would know him on sight, and somehow that thought was not comforting.

The Temple's walls flickered by, silent mosaics and lush hangings, the soaring stonework of Valnon's greatest architects. It was a treasure-box, a coffer for the finest jewels, beautifully made and securely locked at all times. And yet the most precious prize in its keeping was the one Grayson carried in his aching arms, wrapped up in a ruffian's stained cloak.

If I may, Grayson began, in the hush that those corridors always seemed to demand, Might I inquire as to how--

I'm sure you have many questions, Hawk said, cutting him off. And I'm afraid I haven't the time for proper answers. If you wish explanation, it will have to wait.

Grayson made a face at the High Preybird's back. Hawk's authoritative tone had lost none of its potency in the intervening years.

I will say, Hawk continued, unexpectedly, that I take it by your speedy response to Kestrel's message that you are currently without an employer?

Employers come and go, in my line of work, Grayson said, and his voice had more bitterness than he intended. But I have none at the moment, no.

Good, Hawk said, with a brief glance over his shoulder, and did not elaborate further. They passed in silence through the halls of the Temple Birds, and Grayson could not look too closely at the shadows in the cross-corridors. Temple lore was rich with ghosts both horrible and benevolent, but all the ones Grayson saw were of himself.

Here, Hawk said at last, unnecessarily. Grayson knew the steps to the Songbirds' private chambers--knew them far better, in fact, than any outsider ever should. They opened up onto a circular, domed room, where a bathing fountain murmured silkily to its pool. In a recessed sitting area, low tables and divans lay curled up around a glowing brazier like drowsing cats. Three arched doorways were hung with curtains of precious beads: purple, crimson, black. Grayson had never before seen the amethyst doorway. In his day, the Dove's bedchamber off the Solar had sat as empty as a cenotaph, the entrance sealed with a heavy marble slab.

Hawk swept the beads to the side, holding them back for Grayson to enter the Dove's chamber. The bed was a round cushion on a raised dais that echoed a Songbird's exalted pedestal in the sanctuary. Four great elephant tusks served as bedposts, riddled into lace by delicate carvings of birds and vines, curving overhead and joined in the center by an elaborate lamp set with purple glass. The light it cast was dreamy and mysterious, its filigree sides scattering ornate patterns on the velvet coverlets. The Dove made a soft noise as Grayson put him down on the bed, and as he lay there in his soggy, blood-spattered grays he looked like nothing so much as a dead bird in the bottom of a magnificent cage.

He was conscious when you found him? Hawk asked, feeling the Dove's wrist for his pulse, smoothing back the pale shadows of his hair.

Yes, and talky enough. But he passed out shortly after. Felony weed, isn't it?

Mmm. Hawk's fingers danced over the Dove's collar, undoing the pearl buttons of his tunic. Not enough of it. They underestimated a Temple Bird's body weight and gave him too little. I daresay it saved his life, but not as much as you did.

Ah, Grayson said, unsure what to do with the praise of the High Preybird. I was only passing by--

His protests were interrupted by a wild clatter of beads from the doorway. A Songbird stood there, by his build (all long bones and chest) and his age (barely twenty) and his colors, which even in his sleeping pants and tunic were the flaming golds and reds of Noontide. The state of his hair said everything about the poor quality of his night's sleep, and when he saw the Dove he charged forward as though propelled from a siege engine.

Willim! You've found him! Is he all right?

Hawk folded his arms in his sleeves, pursing his lips as though he was trying to turn a smile into sternness. Ellis. You should be asleep.

I should be inhuman if I was! retorted Ellis, mounting the raised platform, and putting one knee down on the Dove's bed. Once convinced Willim was still alive and breathing, he curled over his still form with a relieved noise, still clutching the Dove's unresponsive fingers. What happened to him? His hands are like ice. Are you going to leave him lying here in these wet things?

Naturally, Hawk answered, acidly. I thought we should compound his troubles with a case of pneumonia. He's only been in the Temple for half a measure, Ellis. If you insist on being here, then make yourself useful and fetch him some warm clothes. And for the love of St. Lairke, do not shout. Dmitri will have blood if he's woken at this hour.

"He didn't have any trouble sleeping, Ellis said, with some vehemence. Heartless son of a--" The Thrush of Valnon broke off as he at last noticed the stranger in the room. His eyes swept Grayson from boots to cropped blond hair, doubled back to the sword, and went wide.

Hawk made an exasperated noise. Ellis, this is Nicholas Grayson, an Undercity swordsman of some repute and responsible for the safe retrieval of our Dove. Grayson, this is His Grace Ellis the Thrush of Valnon, fiftieth of his title, and I'll thank him to fetch Willim some clothes, like I asked, before he takes a chill. There will be plenty of time to ogle at a later date.

Grayson smiled wanly at Hawk's summary. I am honored, Your Grace, he said, with a bow to the Thrush. Unfortunately I do not often have a chance to visit the Temple for Noontide, but I knew your predecessor, Alexander. Word in the Undercity is that you do St. Thryse proud in his place.

The forty-ninth Thrush is now the Preybird Kite, Hawk said, with a meaningful look at Grayson that said, quite clearly, that sell-swords were not to go about calling Temple Birds by their common birth names. And I believe I've asked you twice now, Ellis.

The Thrush of Valnon was still staring at Grayson as though he had just dropped down from the moon. I--you--yes, yes of course, he said, with some difficulty. He glanced once more at the worn pommel of Grayson's sword, and at the blood on his gloves, and then hurried over to the Dove's clothes-press to retrieve dry garments.

It's just as well the boy can sing, Hawk sighed, or else I would have grave concerns for his future. Tell me more about these ruffians you encountered. Were they Vallish? Hawk stripped the Dove out of his tunic, revealing bruises and scratches from his misadventure, as well as the glint of platinum hoops strung through his nipples and his navel. Grayson took a sudden interest in a flight of ivory wings on the bed-post as Hawk unceremoniously divested the Dove of his wet finery.

They had Undercity accents, Grayson answered. One of them might have been from the Northcamp, or somewhere in the mainland. Sailors, by the look of them, and probably privateers. I'd say they were locally bought. They had Thrassin weapons, but none were too sure of them.

I suspected as much. The counterpane rustled as Hawk pulled it up over the sleeping Dove, a tenderness in his hands that was equal to the stern tones of his voice. I think we can leave the Dove in the Thrush's care, for now. Hawk moved around the side of the bed and caught Ellis at the step, his arms full of clothes. I would be grateful if you would stay with Willim tonight, Ellis. Hawk patted the Thrush's shoulder. He'll probably sleep through the night, but send one of the prentices for me if there is any change. I'll have Dmitri relieve you if Willim has not woken after Dawning, and he can tend to his injuries then. You'll need some sleep yourself before your hour.

Ellis nodded, his face torn between disappointment and relief. Alone, he could care for the Dove's needs without being concerned for propriety, but Grayson suspected he was sorry to lose the chance to listen to Hawk and Grayson discuss things further.

Grayson's last glimpse of the Dove was of him lying white and still against cushions of violet silk. His platinum jewelry stood out starkly against his pallor, blue veins traced inscrutable glyphs under his skin. His eyes were dark-circled, bruised-looking, and his unusual hair gave him an age his face did not echo. There were more tales of a Dove's ill-fortune than there would ever be rumors about old Temple scandal, and looking at Willim there, Grayson believed every one of them.

Will he be all right? he asked, suddenly guilty for the rough nature of his rescue.

He needs rest, more than anything, Hawk answered. He might not look it, but he's sturdy. Ellis will watch him like a mother falcon over her eyas, I assure you. I'll have the Temple Physician look over him in the morning. He passed through the beaded curtain and Grayson, resisting the urge to look back at the Dove again, followed.

I must apologize, Hawk said, when they were once more out into the passageway. You are not a hound to be whistled for, and yet you came at our call, in spite of how the Temple treated you all those years ago.

Grayson's face felt as transparent as glass; he longed for the ability to shut it up like a reliquary. Rouen, he said, and tried to keep his voice from breaking on a name rarely said, knows that I will always come if he needs me.

Yes, and I fear we have used that to bring you here. Hawk stopped, his head bowed. The Temple asks for your aid, Grayson. You have every right to refuse us.

Rouen asked for my aid, Grayson replied, softly. And I came. There was an uncomfortable pause in the corridor, and Grayson's throat worked to force out words he had not been prepared to say. ...May I see him?

Hawk studied Grayson's face. He is waiting in the portrait room, he said, at last. I don't expect I need to show you the way.

Grayson did not trust his voice, he shook his head instead.

Hawk exhaled slowly, as though preparing to sing. Good. I must report to the Wing about the Dove's condition. I will join you there shortly. Please be so good as to tell Kestrel that Willim is safe.

I will, Grayson promised, and watched as Hawk went back the way they had come, turning down a side-stair and vanishing. Grayson was left in the lamp-lit corridor, to walk alone down a path he had trodden a thousand times over in his dreams.

It was no long distance to the portrait room. Three turnings, that was all, to a more public section of the Temple. It was a place where there were fewer boundaries of occupancy, where Songbirds could meet with Temple outsiders without violating the strict tenets of their terms. It was a place for important meetings, for reunions, for justice. Grayson had no pleasant memories of it.

The room had not changed, looking as though Grayson had last passed through its door yesterday. It was still dark-paneled, somber, and more oppressive than the older areas of the Temple. On the far wall, the huge painting of Saint Alveron hung as it had for time out of mind, his stern face and belling robes overshadowing all that went on below him. It was a painting designed to make the observer feel insignificant, and Grayson knew from experience that it was extremely effective at doing so.

The man standing beneath the gilt frame showed no concern for the saint looming in paint above him. He had his back to the door, and was bent over a table littered with parchments. Messages and maps were scattered across the tabletop and around his boots, his hair was straggling out of its ribbon, and a guttering taper at his elbow threaded unnoticed beeswax beads down the table-leg. For a man forbidden the arts of war, and prohibited to wear a weapon of any sort, he bore a striking resemblance to a harried general in the field.

I've just gotten word from Raven, he said, without bothering to turn around. The quill he was using stuttered on the parchment, spraying a mist of ink across his letter. He sighed, and deliberately dipped it into the inkpot again, his white knuckles showing the effort it took to retain his patience. He says that Boren is alive, for the moment, but he does not expect him to last the night and does not wish to leave his side. You'll forgive me if I took the liberty of writing to Jerdon for his advice. Raven is knowledgeable enough in the ailments of Songbirds, but he is ill-equipped to deal with a blow from a Thrassin blade. Those wretched things flayed poor Boren open to the bones. It's only out of sheer obstinacy that he's held on this long.

All of Grayson's imagined greetings failed him. It was here that they had been together last, fourteen years ago. Here, that they had been given no chance for farewell. He had half-expected to find the Rouen of the past waiting there, seventeen years old and still in a Lark's sable, his kohl smeared with tears. To the man he had become, all Grayson could manage to say was, ...You chose blue.

The Preybird Kestrel narrowly avoided upsetting his inkpot. He spun around, his breath coming up short and failing to become words. For a moment they stared at each other, weighing the differences time had placed on them. Grayson supposed that he must look as much a stranger to Rouen as Rouen did to him, the two of them refurnished houses: unfamiliar at first, but with the ghosts of their past selves still lingering somewhere in the architecture. Belatedly, Kestrel put his fingers to the cobalt tunic he wore.

Yes, well, he said in strained tones, and then swallowed. Kestrels traditionally have a shade of blue for their Preybird colors, and I--I have always been fond of the color. He stopped, frowning to himself, as though after hearing them aloud he deemed the words too foolish for the occasion. ...I thought you were Hawk.

A man I am unlikely to be taken for at any other time, Grayson said, and summoned up a smile that was not long for the world. The atmosphere of the room was too heavy for it, and Grayson let it fade. Hawk sent me ahead, to let you know that the Dove has been recovered unharmed. He's gone to inform the Wing.

Kestrel sagged against the table, one hand over his face. Merciful Alveron, he breathed. I hadn't even dared to hope. How did he make it back here?

A stranger came to his aid in the streets.

And here I thought Valnon had no kindnesses left, Kestrel said, raking back his loose hair. I was certain we had lost Willim for sure.

Luckily, his kidnappers were incompetent, Grayson said, peeling out of his gloves. "They did not